


Avenging Angel

by badass_normal



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-20
Updated: 2009-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badass_normal/pseuds/badass_normal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man brings his girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avenging Angel

He was attractive, and he was good in bed. And he was…well, not gullible, not after everything, but he wasn't as brilliant as advertised, either, and he wasn't paranoid. So, essentially, he was perfect. Everything she could have hoped for.

"So, when do I meet your family?" he asked, sipping his glass of wine and grinning. It was their three month anniversary.

Her heart rate spiked suddenly. Family. Just what she had been waiting to discuss, and she could not believe it had taken three months. "I don't have a family," she whispered, averting her eyes and chewing her lower lip. "Not anymore."

She saw his eyes widen in her peripheral vision. "Oh, I'm sorry. What happened to them?"

Unable to decide whether or not to tell him the truth on this one, she merely looked up at him and smiled sadly. "Car crash. I was a kid."

"My mother's dead," he told her. "Ten years ago. It was really hard, and I never really got a chance to mourn her."

"So does that mean I won't be meeting your family either?"

"Oh, I've got some, and I'm sure they'd love to meet you. They've all been badgering me about finding someone real for a while now. I've been kind of, uh, playing the field."

A silly giggle escaped her lips at that, because even though she was pretty sure she'd be able to tame him going into this little affair of theirs, to hear it confirmed was very satisfying indeed. "I can relate. I've just always had a hard time committing, you know? My guardian never really settled down either, jumped from one guy to another," she fabricated. "So I guess I never had the best example growing up."

"Me neither," he replied, fixing his earnest blue eyes on her. He reached his hand across the table and clasped hers. "Happy anniversary," he said, and it seemed like an odd place to slip that in, with the two of them reminiscing about their respective unconventional childhoods, but sometimes she thought that he just liked the way these little affectionate things sounded.

"Happy anniversary," she acknowledged, fluttering her eyelashes subtly enough that he wouldn't notice she was doing it intentionally.

"So," he said much later, when they were finishing their dinner, "if you feel like meeting my family—are you doing anything for Thanksgiving?"

"If I was, I'd clear my schedule," she said eagerly. "They won't mind that there's an eight-year age difference between us?" she asked, injecting just the right amount of nervousness into her tone.

"Probably not," he said, after a moment's consideration. "But if you'd like to lie about your age, I'm sure you could pass."

She pretended to think about it. "No, they'd eventually figure it out and that would just be awkward." She squeezed his fingers. "After all, I'm hoping this is going to last long enough that we'll WANT them to know the truth, right?"

They went back to his apartment afterward, and she let him make love to her, but she was unable to really engage herself. Her mind was scheming uncontrollably, and it was hard to concentrate on sex when in such a state of frenzied anticipation.

So, she succumbed. For the first time since this all began, she allowed herself to fully think about her plans, about what it would be like to execute them. Allowed herself to fantasize about the satisfaction and ecstasy that would accompany her success. And then, she had no trouble coming at all.

Three weeks later, she showed up at his father's house. His father, his young stepmother, his aunt and uncle, his three cousins and two step-sisters. And looking around at them, at their goddamn Leave-it-to-Beaver existence, their fucking idyllic family and their happily-ever-after, filled her with that wild rage that had fueled her all through the past umpteen years of her life.

"Hey, your girlfriend's taller than you," the uncle remarked with a laugh.

"You remind me of someone," the aunt told her, shaking her hand and smiling a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Odd. She had expected this woman to be the friendliest.

"Yeah," the father confirmed, looking at her strangely.

"I just have one of those faces," she simpered convincingly, for the most part. The aunt still watched her with an arched eyebrow, even though the others were placated.

Getting into the kitchen alone wasn't really hard. She pretended to get lost on her way to the bathroom, and sprinkled the salt-like substance into the wine.

When offered the wine thirty minutes later, at dinner, she looked straight up into the uncle's eyes. "I'm actually only eighteen. But thank you." She wondered if he could feel the raw hatred from her own eyes. She thought he might be able to, because he flinched a little, and she made a note not to look anyone directly in the eyes.

"I don't drink either," the aunt said warmly.

Fuck. That was a complication.

One that was easily taken care of, however. Much later, when the eyes of all the men and Sofia Lugo were droopy, and Sara had finally started looking around suspiciously, because there was no way they had all had enough wine and turkey for that, she easily overpowered the redheaded woman.

Locking the doors, unplugging the phones, she sent the crying kids to the upstairs rooms and locked them in too. She knew their names, she had done her research. She hated them almost as much as she hated their parents.

By the time all of the men had passed out, she could safely drag them down into the basement and tie them each to chairs in the really, really tight knots she had been practicing. Sofia was already dead; the dose to knock out the men had been strong enough to kill her, which had been expected. There had been no original intention to torture Sofia, and death by GHB shouldn't have been too painful.

Sara was the first to wake up, obviously. She instantly panicked, before slowly bringing herself under control. Yes, Sara was probably used to this. Chances were that she would be braver than all of the men through this.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Sara snarled.

Leaning down near the other woman's face, she smiled evilly. "Vengeance, Sara."

Then Sara drew back in horror. "Oh God, you—you—"

"Figure out where you recognize me from yet?"

Sara wordlessly opened her mouth.

"Yes, I do look a lot like my mother, don't I?"

"Where the fuck are my kids?" There was blatant fear in Sara's eyes, but her voice remained somewhat steady.

"I'll let you wonder about that." She noticed that Lincoln was beginning to stir. "Your daughter looks exactly like you, Sara. She's got that same red hair, those big fawn eyes. Looking around at the world like little Bambi in the forest." She laughed coldly. "The world's her playground, right?"

"You bitch. You fucking—if you touch one hair on her head—"

"Are you really threatening me, Sara? Really?"

Lincoln mumbled something incoherent. He was beginning to catch on. She turned her attention to him. "Hmm, Lincoln. Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln." He looked up at her, eyes a little glazed, but definitely understanding her. She drew back her fist and slammed it viciously into his jaw. The sickening crack made her want to smile. "You goddamn hypocrite," she snarled, enraged. "You spend thirty years of your life as a good-for-nothing criminal, beating people up, acting as an accessory to murder, and you have the _nerve_ to look down on your kind now? To get up on a fucking high-horse and judge men and women who do what you used to do, just because now you're a good guy?"

He was definitely conscious now, struggling against the rope she tied him with. "You know what?" she said quietly, cracking the knuckles that had just broken his jaw. "I don't think you've changed. I think you're trying to gain back karma points for all the pain you've caused people." This time, she used her other fist, to break his nose. "Good luck with that, you son of a bitch. You're lucky the rest of the world's given _you_ a chance."

"What—the—hell—?"

She stamped her foot down on his instep, and he groaned again in pain. "Oh, Sara was much quicker than you," she taunted.

"She's Gretchen's daughter," Sara told him hoarsely, tears in her eyes. "Look, we don't—hurting us isn't going to bring your mother back."

"Yeah, or my father. God, Sara, how naïve do you think I am? I watched both my parents get sentenced to death, watched my mother's execution when I was fucking eleven years old. Thank you for your testimony against her. Fucking cunt, I'm sure she appreciated it!"

Sara didn't have an answer. "Hey, I'm going upstairs for a moment," she told Sara and Lincoln, noticing that Michael was also beginning to come around. "Don't go anywhere, okay? If you wanna fill in Mikey, you're more than welcome."

She turned and skipped up the stairs to the kitchen. For supplies.

By the time she returned downstairs, Michael and LJ were fully awake, fully aware. She saw LJ's comically innocent eyes widen at the enormous steak knife gripped in her fingers. She headed over to him.

"So obviously," she said, playing with the knife, "I used you, you dumb fuck. Or, maybe not so dumb. After all, I did spend a lot of time planning this." She smiled at him as he glared daggers at her. "You were fun, though. Really. Even though the whole time I was almost bursting with anticipation of this night. Then again, I waited many years for this, so I could definitely put up with your courtship for a few months."

She looked down at the sharp edge of the knife, thought long and hard about it, before deciding that perhaps for him it was a bit excessive. Sure, he had testified against her mother too, but he had been barely more than a kid at the time, and she really had enjoyed him over the past few months. So instead she turned her back, heels clicking on the concrete basement floor until she reached her handbag.

With a heavy sigh, three people shouting, screaming, begging in the background, she put the gun between the eyes she had grown mildly fond of, and pulled the trigger.

She gave them a little break after that, lounging in the basement and watching expressionlessly as they sobbed hysterically (Lincoln), raged (Michael), and slumped in silent shock (Sara.) Somewhere in there were pleas about the kids, probably from Michael, but she merely rolled her eyes. She figured they knew that this was just the beginning.

\--

Two days later, there were four dead adults in the basement. Three of them had been brutally tortured. The woman was minus a head. Emily was carefully wiping her fingerprints, reflecting.

Gretchen obviously hadn't been the world's greatest mother. And General Krantz probably hadn't really been worth avenging. But Emily had a strong sense of blood ties, regardless of who her parents had been, and the damage to her blood needed to be repaid.

It was a simplistic view of justice. Eye for an eye. One she had inherited from two people born to kill. She had her father's intelligence, her mother's resourcefulness, and a brand of charisma all her own. And had inherited a conscience from neither of them.

She remembered their testimonies. Sara and Lincoln damning her mother, Michael and Lincoln her father. She remembered the hate. She remembered swearing to herself that they would die. She remembered planning obsessively as soon as she was old enough to understand true pain, and torture, and seduction.

The last thing she wiped down was the gun she had used to murder her lover. She slid forward to where he was slumped in death, those eyes formerly so expressive gone cold and almost white.

"I'm almost sorry you got caught up in this," she told his corpse, resting the gun at his feet. As sorry as someone like her was ever capable of being, she added silently.


End file.
